Speak No Evil
by Walthurst
Summary: Living the Capitol life is a harsh one for a boy with nothing left, it's all a matter of blurred images and pain when he's not swept into the spotlight. A look inside the mind of the Capitol's "golden boy." [one-shot] [rated M for lemon]


**Disclaimer**: The Hunger Games and all related materials are the property of Suzanne Collins and Scholastic Press.

**Author's Note**: I had an idea, this is the result. It's been a while since I've read Mockingjay thoroughly; I apologize if I butchered Peeta's characterization. Don't' give me that look.

Speak No Evil

_Bzzzt…bzzzt…bzzzt…_

There it goes again; the smell of damp forest grounds and something metallic that lingers beneath the earth's soil. The soil of the arena he thinks, no that isn't right. Is it? The sound of a babbling brook, water flowing over the rocks and mica. He's been here before. Lots of vegetation, behind slabs of stone, speckled gray surfaces with make up the bank. It's not quite right. He looks up at the sky through heavy eyelids; it's orange, the color of sunrise and sunset. Lots of yellow and pink bleeding in through the red so much red, crimson stains of tributes slaughtered in a bloodbath. Wrong all wrong!

_Bzzzt…bzzzt…bzzzt…_

He opens his eyes. It's happened again, he's having another episode. Those are memories, the arena, and the hunger games. He shakes his head and mentally repeats the mantra they demanded of him. You're in the capitol. You're their golden boy. Everything is fine. He nods whenever they tell him this, whenever he's on the edge with narrowed eyes. He can tell something is wrong, why else would they hurt him each time he got too curious? The hours of readjustment that forced blinding light into his eyes, the disgusting sulfuric smell accompanied by cold steel clamping down on his wrists. That soft hum he remember hearing is almost like Trackerjackers, until it grows into an electric current that jolts him into submission so hard that he suspects they'll have to supply him with another mouthpiece again. He bit through the last one, wouldn't talk for hours. He felt like an Avox. They said they're doing this to protect him and that it was for his own good. Why? He wanted to know why? Because the Capitol is where it's safest for you, the Districts are far too dangerous. He knows that already. He doesn't want to see the districts, they're nothing but hell. Smoldered rubble burnt to the ground- at least some of them are.

The last time he listened to the radio it had only mentioned 12, but they caught him and took it away before he could catch any more news. Now they only leave him with paints and canvases. Do what you do best, boy. He's their little artist, as evidenced by the palette in his hand and unfinished piece in front of him. He doesn't want to paint, dammit! He wants to do something else instead of being handled. Why won't they allow his freedom?! Do they think he'll go to see _her_? That mutt from 12 they always warn him about. He doesn't want to see her; he's not even sure she exists at this point. That's a lie, he knows she does. He's seen the pictures and video footage. She's the girl on fire, the same girl threatening to overthrow the Capitol and burn President Snow alive. She's the one responsible for all of this. She's dangerous. Why in the hell would he go to see her? She'd kill him, and if by some stroke of luck she didn't, he end up killing her instead. Fed up with this nonsense they're feeding him, he lets out an incomprehensible shout and tosses his palette into the corner, paint splattering all over the walls. The canvas goes too, he doesn't want it. It's ugly and it's not enough. He's tired; he doesn't want to be their artist or their golden boy. He wants to make decisions for himself.

_You wouldn't even know where to start,_ a nasty little voice in the back of his mind says. The sandy haired boy scowls at himself and walks away from the mess he's made. He thinks about the rebellion (or was it a revolution? He can't remember the correct terminology) and what it means. The people were unsatisfied with the way things were. He could understand that, the Capitol didn't seem like they were doing him any favors, but then again, weren't they? They did keep him away from the riots and the controversial propaganda, they let him talk to that cheery fellow Ceaser Flickerman, and they pampered him when they weren't being pushy. The only times they had actually done something bad to him was when he "misbehaved" and wasn't that reasonable? Calloused hand goes to rub at his temple. He's getting a headache just thinking about all of this. Relax, don't think. The whole reason they gave him the art supplies was so he could detox, but he was beginning to feel devoid of anything meaningful to make. It leaves him wondering what is meaningful to him?

"Peeta, my name is Peeta Mellark."

It's what he does when he cannot figure anything out. He recites his name because it's real. It's the name he was given from birth, the name his mother and brothers called him by. Family, which was destroyed now. She did this. That goddamned girl on fire burned everything; if she hadn't started this whole thing then maybe they would still be alive. Do what you're told and no one gets hurt. Clearly a lie since the games had spawned 74 years of complete misery, it's easy to tell. Even he cannot deny the prosthetic that now made up his left was brought on by the Capitol's harsh reprimand. It's been rough for a while with lugging the impressive imitation around, at first he just sort of half-dragged half-walked around with it. Now he's not afraid to give a little pressure in the knee every time he has to sit down. The leg is not specifically his, but he'd rather not remain with a useless stump. It's another perversion he's not altogether used to. Peeta sighs and knocks on the metal with his fist- not hard, but in a weird sort of acknowledgement.

"…but that's just how things are."

A knock at his door interrupts his thought process and immediately his eyes wander to the mess of paint and now ruined canvas. No doubt someone had to have heard the crash and clatter. They're going to scold him for this one, he knows it. No matter how much he tries to behave, there's always something inside of him itching to be released. He's a prisoner. Peeta sulks back over to the door of his room, crossing the large flatbed he's been given and steels himself for one of the Peacekeepers. He's already begun healing from the nasty bruise over his right eye he'd received from last time, but when he opens the door, it's not a peacekeeper or authoritative guard of any kind. It's an Avox. He blinks, confused as to why they would bother sending one of the mutes to his room. They almost never accompanied him except to escort him to dinner or wait outside of his dressing room. So they've just decided to send in anyone and see what happens now? Weird. This one's a girl who tries not to shift underneath his stare, it's only until he realizes that his eyes are heavy with a narrowed gaze that he lets his face fall back into that tired expression. Underneath of all that ridiculously ironic fashion (including the headgear) he can see her glance from him to the paint in the corner, staining the walls like blood. Peeta sags back from the doorway and merely shakes his head.

"It's nothing, I just got upset."

He only assumes she came to see what the commotion was and that his answer is good enough that she'll leave. He doesn't and goes to slump on the side of his bed. Whatever, he isn't in any mood to shout at her. The avoxes have never done anything to bother him, so why in the hell should he care? It's only a moment before he hears a shuffle and then looks up to see that she's trying to pick up his things. The paint tubes, the brushes, and the palette. There's nothing she can do to salvage the canvas itself, but it is this little action that irritates him. It's his mess and in his room, he'll keep it that way until otherwise.

"Leave it!"

She freezes and dares not to look at him. Her head is bowed and he feels the slightest hint of regret. It's her job, even if she doesn't like it. In a lot of ways, they're in the same boat. He does what they tell him, but has no one to talk to. Well…no one he wants to talk to. It's still so quiet without others his age around. Running a hand over his non-bruised side, he hunches over on his knees and buries his face in his hands. Peeta doesn't want them to fix everything up for him, especially when they know all too well that it's damaging to him and for him. He closes his eyes and tries to count to 30, but he knows she's still there in the room with him.

"Just leave it, please."

Another shuffle and soon he feels a hand on his shoulder through the cotton of his plain white shirt. He flinches; physical contact is unnerving and avoxes aren't supposed to make any kind of contact. They're supposed to be seen and not heard, but really they're damn near invisible to all unless ordered to do something. He dares to look back up at her and frowns. She's only touching his shoulder, yet there's no applied pressure given to warn him or anything harsh. It's still jarring though. He has no idea what to do, because what should he do? There aren't instructions for how to deal with something like this. Of course he could kick her out and tell one of his handlers, but he's not cruel enough to enact the latter option. He does consider telling her to leave, but his action- it's so alien to him because any kind of contact done unto him was practiced or forced and Peeta decided that he didn't like those. His however was something else. After a moment she lets go of him and backs away. He almost panics in thinking she's going to leave.

"Wait!"

He stands suddenly and she stills. Oh, he recognizes that. She thinks the sudden action is going to get her punished. More often than not Peeta has been in her place. That is one other thing they have in common. Shifting uneasily, he places his palms outward in a placating gesture. He's not going to do anything to her. He has plenty of anger but can channel it toward people who are worthy of receiving it. This girl is not. Instead he musters up the friendliest look he can manage, which is really just a cross between looking guilty and confused.

"Just—it's okay."

She seems to relax at this, which in turn puts him at a little bit of ease. He's still wondering why she did that though, and now curious about his little avox, Peeta tries to peer through that ludicrous headgear she's wearing to get a look at her. Slowly he inches towards her, hands splayed out where she can clearly see them. He wants to take off that exaggerated piece and get a clear look at her. She doesn't make any move which really highlights how submissive her way of living and interacting is. Reaching around, his fingers go to undo the small ties and zipper. For a split second he's worried its reinforced with some kind of electronic alert system, but if that were true then she would've indicated such to prevent him from getting so close. Soon the headgear is off and he blinks at how she looks. Hair a nice golden brown tied into a carefully crafted bun, stylized mascara or whatever they call it, and muted blue eyes. He doesn't like her like this. Whatever used to be underneath all of this, he was to dig to find it. He wants to see what she was before this unnecessary and grandiose fix. Before he realizes what he's doing, Peeta's already got her seated on the edge of his bed and wiping away at the makeup with one of the towels he'd fetched from his bathroom. Damp with warm water, he takes his time is peeling back the layers of Capitol filth. He is going to make her look human again, if only for a little bit.

_She's in my room, which means she has to do what I say_

He shakes off those thoughts as he unties her hair from that ugly bun. It cascades down around her shoulders, not unlike a wave. He can see the ripples of it. Peeta likes this; it's an improvement. Even though this goes against everything the both of hem ae supposed to be doing, he can't say he cares all that much because just for now he's looking at another human being. He's looking at a sad young woman. Something in his chest tightens and he tries to ignore it. That's right; this is what another person looks like. No crazy high quality fashion, no skin dye, no preposterous enhancements to look even more glamorous. She was a person once…just like him. Peeta doesn't even realize he's crying until her thumb brushes over his cheek. The moment he notices, she snatches her hand back as if she's been burnt. How silly: he burns bread not people. He's scared, they both know it. He's so scared right now. People too burdened with fright tend to do a lot of stupid things; he's seen it happen before with the uprising and while he's usually pretty good with controlling his own emotions, this little avox is now an audience to his crumbling sense of identity and self. His shoulders are trembling and his voice is a shaking whisper. Already knelt in front of her his head sinks into her lap and he's trying to prevent any more tears from flowing.

"T-too much, it's j-just too much…"

Her hands (both of them) are in his hair now. He is messy and disoriented and just wants to know what's real and what's not. Everybody is lying to him. Some are keeping him safe, but they're also hurting him to get him to see. See what? He can't see anything they're talking about. It's all a bunch of images blurred together, nightmare after nightmare that makes his head hurt. He sighs into the avox's lap and wonders if he should just allow his brain to explode. If he can't think anymore then he won't have to worry about everything else. It isn't until the fingers through his hair reach the base of his neck does he shudder and snapped back to attention. Her hands leave him instantly and he just stares with wide eyes and parted lips. What did she just do? He knows that she touched him in a way that was reminiscent of comfort, but it brought about such a weird sensation with it. He blinks again, uncertain if he's seeing correctly. There's an avox in front of him- no. There's a young woman sitting in front of him, yes. The tears subside for now and he gives a small sniff. The garment she's wearing is now damp, although it'll dry off later. He's probably gotten her into so much trouble by now; the façade has cracked, splintered into many pieces and there is but so much he can do to fix it. He doesn't expect some sort of understanding behind all of the parallels they share, he doesn't expect her to feel anything for him, and he certainly doesn't expect the warm pair of lips to meet his and end up calming him down. What happens afterward is a whole new direction entirely.

** a pawn in thei **_**s**_

"Mmh-"

It's that soft moan of hers into his own lips that makes the boy with the bread's heart jump. He thought avoxes weren't supposed to talk. Duh, they weren't supposed to _talk_, it didn't mean they couldn't make any noise. This little tidbit seemed to slip past his mind, easy enough when one considers all that he's been through. He has her seated in his lap, his arms hooked around her with palms on pretty curves. This has already gone on far enough hasn't it? Neither one of them is allowed this sort of thing, nor is he arguably in the right mental state to be indulging in it. No telling what Snow will have done to them because of this little misdemeanor. Truthfully Peeta hadn't thought much about sex with all that happened and was currently going on in the world around him. He never thought of himself as some sort of heartthrob like that pretty-boy from 4. What was his name again? Oh well, didn't matter. Honestly he wasn't sure if his mattered at all, but it was poignant in that she would be his first if things were headed in the direction he thought. The idea of having someone came as a discomfort, they weren't each other's anything, but owned separately by the Capitol. He's not a uniquely sexual being, but not entirely a prude okay? He's a teenage boy he knows what goes where and how things work, it's just never been something to broach before. Again, see Panem's current state of affairs. But now…

He needed something, something to remind him how it feels to be real and alive and not a puppet, because this is no life. _Yes it is,_ that little voice jeers. _You're safe here_. Peeta can't be sure why this is the something that jars him into some kind of recognition. Her fingers are soft and pushing up the back of his shirt and trailing down the skin of his spine. She's being careful with him and he growls; since when does anyone give a damn about treating him carefully? She warm and he will admit to admiring another body that doesn't seemed like it's carved out of stone and placed around him for set dressing. This is a real person, no matter how small their part is, he'll acknowledge it for now. He'll be good to her because honestly it's probably the only sort of genuine thing she'll ever feel from one of the Capitol's boys. The implications catch him off guard; he's never thought like that before…has he? Steered clear of harsh thinking even when being pragmatic. Just another way they've poisoned him. This isn't poison he tells himself. This is sweet, like a honeypot.

"Hmh!"

He's tugged on her wavy brown hair. Oh, she doesn't like that? Hard to tell. Peeta knows a thing or 2 about pain. So he sticks to that gentle rocking rhythm that has her mewling so nicely. He does like that sound of that, no matter how fucked up everything is. He likes being able to give her a little piece of himself that is of his own accord. Her lips leave his and he tries not to whine, but then he is quickly surprised at how good they feel going down his neck and making cute little noises in the hollow of his collar bone. He needs to get out of his shirt, he's burning up and it's only getting in the way. They're a mess of fumbling limbs and tangled sheets, but hey- it's something new and different for him. The boy with the bread allows her to straddle him (wouldn't be the first time he's been put underneath the command of another) and do continue with that groping. The mute doesn't seem to mind his leg at all; now's her chance to be greedy, isn't that something she's permitted to indulge in this one moment of false freedom? The soft pads of her fingers are skirting across his bare chest, stroking along his pectorals and then trailing down to his ribs. It startles him and he tries not to stare, easy enough to do with the already dim lighting. Peeta hears her breath hitch as he rocks into her; it's such a pleasant sensation that has his stomach burning with need. He does it again and again, joining the sounds of grunting and breathless panting. When she looks down at him, he's caught. There's a spark of something behind those muted blue eyes that makes his ears burn and face redden. He forgets that he's an inexperienced boy with his heart torn apart. He is getting lost in the feel of sex. Her thumb brushes against his navel and it's such a jerk reaction to cause his clammy palm to meet her cheek. Peeta doesn't know what to think about this- any of it.

Still he can't stop, he has to finish what he started…and that he does. The buildup came with a successful storm of fireworks; he saw supernovas behind his eyes and heard the satisfying high pitched whine of his odd bedfellow to know that he had at least done something correct. He lay flat once all of his limbs felt like jelly breathing heavily and relishing in the feel of his own heartbeat pounding. Huh, so he did have one. The mute rolled off to the side of him, her own breathing ragged and brown hair messy from their romp. He watched her chest rise and fall, outlining her face and making sure to remember it. Wouldn't do him much good in the case of that damn headgear she wore, and no doubt the myriad of faces would blend overtime if there was anymore "corrective activity" to occur in his future, but it was something worth remembering in this crazed time he was living in. Peeta finds himself sleepy and reaching out to grasp at the sheets beside him to find her. He doesn't want to be left in the cold air, he needs something and that just happens to be her at the moment. Anything, he'll take any kind of respite at this moment in time. He can almost imagine his body floating within ethereal space, just drifting along with no real purpose or direction. It would be better than the buzzing or electricity or crackling of radio static, even the smell of roses makes him ill nowadays. He's falling into the abyss of war and knowing damn well that there's little chance of him ever coming back and hardly able to tell what's real anymore.

_My name is Peeta Mellark…my name is Peeta Mellark…_

**he _ e_ **_**d**_** the part so well **

His eyes drift open and soon his body wakes up from the sleepy afterglow that left his both curious and disgusted with himself. His nostrils flare as he huffs out regretfully, no need to look aside to know that she isn't there, but he does anyway. His little avox is long gone. It's possible that his handlers had come and snatched her up while he was asleep, or she could've left all by herself. She wasn't supposed to stay with him, it wasn't her place. It wasn't his place either, but he's kidding himself if he thinks that her small touches and inscrutable looks meant nothing. He was in pain, perhaps that what she had come to his room for, to service him with pleasure. He wouldn't put it past the demented minds behind all of this. The clock on his wall signals that another 24 hours has passed by, and if he's tallied up his days correctly then it should be time for another showcase. They only bring him out when they need to prove a point, to hit a particular nerve of the rebels. He has to talk to her again, _the mutt_. His nose wrinkles but he tosses the sheets aside and heads for the shower to at least look decent for his team to prep him into a golden boy again. The shampoo smells like roses, everything smells like roses, but he bears it in every way he knows how.

The next time Peeta passes by an Avox he looks for her, but knows that she's gone.


End file.
